✵ I. A Letter from the Lion's Hunter
The letter arrived on a hot afternoon, tucked between routine reports like a snake hiding in straw.
On the outside, it was nothing:
neat English script,
a seal from the Madras Presidency,
addressed to Uyyalawada's chieftain in formal style.
Narasimha almost tossed it to the side with other Company notices.
Then his eye caught a phrase, written in a smaller, more careful hand near the bottom of the folded page:
"I seek to understand how your lands remain steady when others crack."
That… was not usual British phrasing.
He broke the seal.
The letter inside was in English, but the ink felt like it had been laid down by someone who thought before each word.
He read slowly, translating in his head.
"To the esteemed Uyyalawada chieftain,
Reports from the interior speak of a curious stability in your region: fewer defaults in tax, reduced unrest during poor rains, and rumours of cooperative arrangements centered around your temples.
As part of my administrative duties, I have been encouraged to visit certain interior estates to better understand local mechanisms of order and loyalty. I request permission to visit your lands, observe your arrangements, and speak—informally, if you permit—with those who manage them.
You may refuse. It is within your right to be wary of Company men. However, I assure you I come not to break what works, but to learn how it does.
Respectfully,
Edwin Cavendish
Assistant Commissioner, Madras Presidency"
"Edwin," Narasimha murmured, tasting the name. "So our curious clerk has grown legs and rank."
Ramu leaned over his shoulder.
"Company man wants to 'learn'," he said dryly. "Last time they came to learn, they discovered how to tax salt."
Narasimha's fingers tapped the paper thoughtfully.
"True," he said. "But this one… he's the same who kept underlining my name in those earlier reports. His tone is… strange."
"Strange how?" Ramu asked.
"Less like 'I am inspector, you are ant,' more like 'I am man, you are man, shall we talk?'" Narasimha said. "And see this line—'It is within your right to be wary of Company men.' Who in his position writes that?"
Ramu grunted.
"A man who has seen his own house do wrong," he said.
Narasimha folded the letter again, thoughtful.
"Appa?" he asked later, when his father joined them.
The older man read it twice.
"Well?" Narasimha asked.
His father shrugged.
"Let him come," he said. "If he is honest, we gain understanding. If he is snake, we learn his pattern up close. Either way, Trinetra will be watching."
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"Trinetra will be watching," he agreed.
❖ II. Heaven Reads English
In Vaikuntha, a faint thread of light rose from the letter as it was folded.
Lakshmi tilted her head.
"Another child of Empire approaches our child of Bharat," she said.
Saraswati watched the flickering image of Edwin Cavendish at his desk in Madras:
lean, well-kept, eyes weary beyond his years, ink-stained fingers.
"He reads more than he drinks," she observed. "That is already unusual among his peers."
Parvati's gaze narrowed.
"Does he come as spy? Or seeker?" she asked.
Vishnu's answer was mild.
"Both," he said. "He is loyal to his country, but not blind to its sins. He suspects that what his superiors call 'native superstition' is actually a different kind of wisdom they have no words for."
Maheshwara spoke softly.
"Men like him," he said, "stand at forked paths. They may become cruel apologists for power—or quiet correctors inside its machinery. Which way he bends may depend, in part, on who he meets now."
Brahma wrote:
Edwin Cavendish – node of interest. Possible conduit for dharma into foreign institutions.
Lakshmi smiled slightly.
"And perhaps," she added, "one day, he will teach a stubborn duke across the seas that nobility is not title, but conduct."
Saraswati's eyes gleamed.
"A seed for a future order?" she asked.
Vishnu only smiled.
"Let us see how he speaks to our lion first," he said.
✢ III. The Englishman Arrives
Edwin Cavendish came not in a grand column, but with a small, practical escort:
three sepoys,
one clerk,
one sturdy horse,
one trunk that held more papers than clothes.
Dust coated his boots and the hem of his coat by the time Uyyalawada's hill came into view.
"Sir, shall we send word ahead?" his clerk asked, adjusting his spectacles.
Edwin shook his head.
"They already know we're coming," he said. "Men who keep roads this clean and markets this calm… nothing arrives here unseen."
He was right.
By the time he reached the estate entrance, Narasimha had heard:
how many men rode with him,
that he greeted gate-guards politely,
that he refused to hit his horse when it stumbled.
Small things.
Telling things.
In the shade of the outer hall, Narasimha waited beside his father.
He wore a simple but dignified angavastram, hair neatly tied, no excessive ornaments.
Not the boy from years ago.
Not yet the full king.
Something in between.
The British party dismounted.
For a moment, Edwin stared.
He had expected a softened, indulgent landlord's son.
Instead he saw:
a young man with eyes older than his face,
posture relaxed but alert,
a mind already measuring him.
"Welcome to Uyyalawada," the elder chieftain said in serviceable Hindustani. "I am pleased the Company still remembers there is land beyond its maps."
Edwin bowed slightly.
"Sir," he replied. "Thank you for receiving me. I hope not to be a burden on your house."
Introductions done, they moved inward.
Servants brought water, light refreshments.
Formality played out like a slow opening dance.
Only later, when the sun dipped and the air cooled, did the real talk begin.
❖ IV. The First Test: Questions Without Arrogance
They sat in a small inner veranda, away from the grand hall:
less official,
more honest.
Between them on a low table lay:
cups of spiced buttermilk for the hosts,
tea for Edwin,
a rough local map.
Edwin began cautiously.
"I have read," he said, "that during last year's poor rains, your region saw fewer defaults in tax and fewer disturbances than similar tracts. Is that accurate, or have my reports been… embellished?"
"Partially accurate," Narasimha's father said. "Some men still struggled. But we managed to prevent collapse."
"How?" Edwin asked simply.
No condescension.
No suspicion.
Just… professional interest.
The elder man inclined his head toward his son.
"You must ask him," he said. "He is the one who thinks in maps and numbers."
Edwin turned to Narasimha, a brow lifting slightly.
"I was under the impression you were… fourteen?" he said.
"Fifteen by our counting," Narasimha corrected mildly. "Old enough to be scolded by both gods and accountants."
Ramu snorted softly from the pillar.
Edwin's lips twitched.
"Very well," he said. "May I ask, then—how does a fifteen-year-old maintain better stability than some of our appointed district collectors?"
Narasimha leaned forward, fingers tracing lines on the map.
"Because," he said, "your collectors think in columns. I think in rivers."
Edwin blinked.
"Explain," he said.
So Narasimha did.
He talked of:
Varsha Nidhi—grain pooled in good times to buffer bad seasons.
Suraksha Kothi—deposits in temple chests monitored by dual keys.
Beej Nidhi—seed loans that prevented small crises from becoming disasters.
He did not speak of Trinetra's full extent.
He did not mention Chhaya Mandal by name.
But he did not hide the overall philosophy:
"We treat money like water," he said. "It should flow through many hands without drowning them. When you let it pile only in certain ponds, everything downstream dries or floods."
Edwin listened with growing fascination.
"This is… quite sophisticated," he said slowly. "We have similar concepts in our financial circles. But I have never heard them expressed in… such earthy terms."
"I don't have words like 'insurance' and 'portfolio' in my tongue," Narasimha replied. "I have fields, rains, and hungry mouths."
He met Edwin's gaze.
"You have your Empire," he added quietly. "I have my people. If my experiments help them stand a little straighter, I consider them worthwhile. If they help you later design less cruel policies, that is your dharma, not mine."
The challenge was gentle, but clear.
Edwin did not flinch.
"I do not deny," he said, "that many of our policies have… lacked mercy. Or foresight. I joined this service believing I could improve matters from within. Some days, I wonder whether I have merely grown good at writing footnotes."
Narasimha tilted his head.
"Footnotes become chapters," he said. "Given enough time and enough stubborn men."
Edwin smiled faintly.
"Spoken like someone who intends to live long enough to read the revised edition," he said.
Narasimha's eyes glinted.
"You have no idea," he murmured.
✢ V. Testing the Englishman's Spine
Later that evening, as stars blinked awake, Narasimha and Edwin walked along the estate's outer wall.
Guards kept discreet distance.
The conversation shifted.
"You ask much about our systems," Narasimha said. "May I now ask something of you?"
"Of course," Edwin said.
"Why did you really come?" Narasimha asked plainly. "Your letter spoke of duties and observations. But many in your position would be content with reports. You travelled dusty roads to stand here. Why?"
Edwin was silent for a few breaths.
"When I was younger," he said at last, "I watched my father praise the 'civilising mission' of Empire. He was not a cruel man. He truly believed we were bringing order and light."
He laughed softly, without humour.
"Then I came here," he continued. "I saw—railways, yes; law courts, yes. But also fields stripped bare by revenue demands, artisans thrown into hunger by imported cloth, petitions ignored because the petitioner did not speak English."
He paused.
"I am not a saint," he said. "I like comfort. I believe in my country. But I do not believe that wearing a red coat makes my men's sins less poisonous. So when I read of a place where, despite our intrusion, people seemed… less crushed, I grew curious. I wondered—are you merely lucky? Or have you found ways we should learn, if we are ever to stop pretending we are better than those we rule."
Narasimha studied him.
"Do your superiors know you think like this?" he asked.
"Not in these words," Edwin said dryly. "They suspect I am 'too sympathetic' to natives. It has slowed my promotion. But it has not yet cost me my post."
"Yet," Narasimha repeated.
They walked in silence for a moment.
"Edwin," Narasimha said suddenly, "if one day you are ordered to crush a village like mine—to enforce a law you know will cause suffering—what will you do?"
Edwin exhaled.
"I do not know," he admitted. "I would like to think I would resist. Advise against. Delay. Subvert. But resistance has a cost. Men who resist often end their days obscure, poor, or dead."
"Men who do not resist," Narasimha said softly, "end their days comfortable—and haunted."
Edwin gave a rueful smile.
"You speak as if you have seen many lives," he said.
Narasimha's eyes darkened with something ancient.
"Let us say," he replied, "I have watched the wheel longer than most boys my age."
❖ VI. Trinetra Shows Its Edge
To truly evaluate Edwin, Narasimha decided to show him a piece of the truth, without lifting the entire veil.
The next morning, he invited Edwin on a "routine survey" of nearby fields.
They rode together, with minimal escort.
They passed:
tanks with steady water levels,
farmers who greeted them with wary respect, not abject terror,
small shrines at crossroads.
At one point, Edwin's horse shied near a rocky outcrop.
From behind it, a group of rough-looking men emerged.
Bandits, by appearance:
patched clothes,
crude weapons,
hard eyes.
Edwin tensed.
His hand went toward his holster.
Narasimha lifted a hand casually.
"No need," he said in a low voice. "They are not here to attack."
The men approached, then bowed their heads to him.
"Dora," their leader said. "We brought the information you asked for."
Edwin blinked.
Information?
Bandits?
Narasimha dismounted with easy familiarity.
He spoke briefly with the men in fast Telugu.
Edwin caught fragments:
"…new road planned…"
"…Company treasury moving…"
"…we will not touch unless ordered…"
When they were done, Narasimha handed the leader a small pouch.
"Feed your people," he said. "And remember our agreement: no attacks on caravans under our mark. If you must survive on rich fools' purses, do so. If you cross the line, the shadows will teach you fear."
The bandit leader nodded, eyes serious.
"We remember," he said. "Your shadows hit harder than any of us."
They left as quickly as they'd come.
Edwin stared.
"You… employ bandits?" he asked.
"No," Narasimha said calmly, remounting. "I… reassign them."
He clicked his tongue; the horse moved.
"Some men," he went on, "are too wild to fit into normal village life. If left alone, they become blades in anyone's hand. If given a code and boundaries, they can be turned into… dangerous friends."
"Is that wise?" Edwin asked. "Consorting with—"
"Would you prefer they remain uncontrolled, preying on whoever passes?" Narasimha asked mildly. "At least this way, their hunger answers to a fence."
Edwin was silent.
"You disapprove," Narasimha said.
"I… am uneasy," Edwin admitted. "But I cannot deny your roads feel safer than some I have travelled in supposedly 'pacified' districts."
Narasimha smiled without humour.
"Ah yes," he said. "Pacification. A fine English word. Sounds like a lullaby. Often hides a grave beneath it."
Edwin did not defend.
"Do you plan to build all your systems this way?" he asked instead. "Turning dangers into… disciplined instruments?"
"Yes," Narasimha said simply. "Because I do not have the luxury of pretending they will vanish if I frown hard enough."
He looked at Edwin sideways.
"One day," he said, "your world will discover that monsters come in many forms. Some wear crowns. Some wear uniforms. Some wear suits and ties. The only answer is not to ban power, but to bind it to a code."
Edwin's brows rose.
"A code?" he repeated.
"Yes," Narasimha said. "A set of rules sharper than any blade. For those who work in shadow and in light."
He touched his chest.
"I am still writing mine," he said. "So far, it says: 'Protect the innocent, punish the cruel, never forget you are not above judgement yourself.'"
He glanced at Edwin.
"You?" he asked. "Have you a code yet, Englishman?"
Edwin thought.
"At present," he said slowly, "it's something like: 'Do your duty, but do not let duty become excuse. Use your position to soften blows where you can. And if ever asked to become the blow itself against the undeserving… refuse, whatever it costs.'"
Narasimha nodded.
"A rough draft," he said. "But not bad."
✢ VII. A Night of Straight Talk
That night, while the household slept, the two of them remained awake in a small room lit by a single lamp.
The pretense of "inspecting ledgers" gave way to real conversation.
They spoke of:
rebellions in other parts of India,
slave uprisings in distant lands Edwin had read about,
the rise of industry in Britain,
the slow strangling of traditional crafts.
"At times," Edwin confessed, "I imagine a future where war is not fought with swords and muskets, but with machines on wheels, even in the sky. Bombs that fall from above. Cities shattered in a night."
Narasimha's gaze went far.
"I have seen such hints," he said quietly. "Not in your books. In… other visions."
Edwin frowned.
"You believe in visions?" he asked. "Prophecy?"
"I believe," Narasimha said, "that time is not as simple as your clocks pretend. Some souls carry echoes of what has not yet happened. Call it prophecy if you like. I call it… unwelcome spoilers."
He smiled faintly at Edwin's expression.
"Whether war is on horse or in iron machine," he added, "the questions remain: Who fights? For what? Under whose orders? With what restraints?"
Edwin nodded.
"And who cleans up after," he said. "Often the same peasants who had no say in its beginning."
They fell into a thoughtful silence.
Finally, Edwin spoke again.
"May I ask you something… possibly impertinent?" he said.
"You have done little else," Narasimha replied dryly. "Continue."
"Do you hate us?" Edwin asked quietly. "Not just the Company. Us. The English. Our presence here."
Narasimha's jaw worked.
He could have said "yes."
He could have said "no."
Instead, he told the truth as it sat in him.
"I hate what your Empire has done," he said slowly. "I hate the arrogance that believes your law, your god, your cloth are superior by birthright. I hate the starvation, the humiliation, the casual cruelty."
He met Edwin's gaze steadily.
"But you…" he went on, "…I do not hate a man who can see wrong and name it. I do not waste hatred on those who might one day stand beside me when greater storms come."
"Greater than Empire?" Edwin asked softly.
"Yes," Narasimha said. "Greater than Empire."
He thought of:
Hydra cells,
Nazi banners,
men who would wield power beyond imagination in the coming centuries,
alien fleets over cities,
madmen with stones that bent reality.
"All this," he murmured, "is rehearsal."
Edwin had no words for that.
He only knew that for the first time in his career, he felt not like an officer examining a subject, but like a student sitting before a strange, young teacher.
He didn't resent it.
He… welcomed it.
❖ VIII. A Seed Sown Across Seas
On his last day in Uyyalawada, as he prepared to depart, Edwin found a small packet waiting in his guest room.
Inside was:
a folded palm leaf,
and a thin, finely worked knife in a simple sheath.
Not ornate.
Balanced.
On the leaf, written in precise Telugu and then beneath in Edwin's language by a careful scribe, were a few lines:
"Power without code becomes cruelty.
Code without courage becomes excuse.
Courage without humility becomes arrogance.
If ever you train others to move in shadow or act in secret, bind them to these three: Power, Code, Courage—with humility as their constant companion.
A gentleman is not one who wears fine cloth,
but one who chooses restraint when excess is offered.
Consider this a gift—from one who walks in approaching darkness,
to one who might one day light a lamp within it.
— U.N.R."
Edwin turned the knife in his hand.
Light caught on its edge.
Not a thug's weapon.
A gentleman's last resort.
He closed his fingers around it, feeling the weight.
Somewhere within his chest, something… aligned.
A thought came to him, half-formed:
Workers of shadow bound by codes of honour…gentlemen, not thugs.
He smiled to himself.
"At present, I can barely influence district circulars," he murmured. "But perhaps… one day… there will be room for such an order."
He tucked the knife carefully into his trunk, close to his private journals.
He did not yet know that this blade would cross ocean and decades.
That, in his older years, he would show it to a young aristocrat in England—a boy named Orlando, with too much idealism and too little guidance.
He would say:
"Manners maketh man, lad. But so does what you do when no one is watching. There is a house in India where I learned that the true measure of nobility is how you act toward those who can never repay you. Remember that."
That day was far off.
For now, Edwin mounted his horse, bowed deeply to the chieftain and his unreadable son, and rode away.
✵ IX. The Lion Watches the Sparrow Fly
From the terrace, Narasimha watched the party shrink into the distance.
Ramu came to stand beside him.
"You trust him?" Ramu asked.
"I trust him to struggle," Narasimha said. "And that is more than I can say for most in his uniform."
His father joined them.
"You gave him quite a gift," he said. "That knife… and those words."
"He needed a spine-sharpening," Narasimha replied. "He has conscience. He needed vocabulary and symbol."
Ramu looked curious.
"You really think," he asked, "that one British official will matter in the long run?"
"Yes," Narasimha said simply. "Not for my immediate plans. For what comes after I step into deeper shadow."
He squinted toward the horizon.
"One day," he murmured, "there will be wars that make this Company look like children fighting over toys. Men with resources will need to build independent orders—neither fully under crown nor under criminals. When that time comes, it will help if someone in their ancestry remembers there was once a lion in Bharat who said: 'Power with manners. Knives with honour.'"
Ramu shook his head in half-amusement.
"You weave webs across continents now?" he asked.
"I lay threads," Narasimha corrected. "Time will tie them."
❖ X. Heaven Notes a Future Tailor
In Vaikuntha, Edwin's departure shimmered like a fading lamp.
Lakshmi smiled.
"He will carry our child's words far," she said. "Across seas. Into grand houses where men think they alone shape the world."
Saraswati added,
"And he will meet young ones there who tire of empty titles, who seek a code to live by beyond mere etiquette."
Parvati's eyes softened.
"Some of those will fight in terrible wars," she said. "They will watch friends die, empires fall. They will need… an anchor."
Maheshwara's voice was deep.
"Let them have it," he said. "Let this tiny exchange between lion and foreign sparrow become one of the many seeds from which Kingsman will grow: an order that, in its best moments, remembers that a sword can be carried in a hand that knows when not to strike."
Vishnu closed his eyes briefly, a faint smile playing at his lips.
"And when that order's founder—Duke of Oxford—stands broken by grief after losing his son in a world war," he said softly, "he will remember an old teacher named Edwin, who spoke of a man in far Bharat who taught him that service does not end when the battlefield does."
Brahma wrote, satisfied:
Proto-Kingsman seed: planted. Mentor-to-mentor line established.
✶ XI. Closing of "The Gentleman Who Refused Chains"
That night, back in Uyyalawada, Narasimha returned to his usual burdens:
grain tallies,
Trinetra reports,
Chhaya Mandal updates,
a small fight among cousins over mango slices.
Life did not suddenly grow easier because he had nudged one Englishman toward dharma.
But something subtle had shifted.
His web had extended, not only through Bharat's soil and markets, but across culture itself—
into the heart of the very Empire that sought to bind his land.
He had met the man who would, in time, shape the man who would shape an order of gentleman spies:
men in suits,
with umbrellas and hidden blades,
who would stand between madness and the innocent
in an age when gods wore capes,
and devils built corporations.
All that slept in the future.
For now, the Deathless Lion of Rayalaseema sat hunched over a palm leaf, muttering:
"Next on list: repair canal, expand Beej Nidhi, and maybe—maybe—steal two hours to sleep without dreaming of British men and their confusing forks."
Somewhere above, the gods chuckled.
The world—Bharat, Marvel, Kingsman, and all the tangled threads between—rolled quietly toward its next convergence.
✦ End of Chapter 16 – "The Gentleman Who Refused Chains" ✦